The race to Paris

The new Eurostar link from St Pancras to Paris promises to be faster, less stressful and more convenient than taking the plane. But is the train really faster than flying? While Francisca Kellett headed to Paris via Heathrow, Charles Starmer-Smith raced her on the Eurostar.

0.00 hrs on the stopwatch Our head-to-head begins under Big Ben. As we both set off from Parliament Square, the sun illuminates the clock's golden hands. Today is all about time.

0.15hrsI arrive at St Pancras by Tube, well ahead of schedule, which gives me a chance to marvel at the revamped station. It took 11 years for the architect Alastair Lansley to create what he calls "a deliberate essay in saying we're going to be bigger and better than our rivals". As shafts of blue light cascade down from the majestic roof of iron and glass, it seems worth the wait.

0.25hrs I wander though the pillared concourse, but none of the shops and restaurants is open, there's no sign of the farmers' market we were promised and a few businessmen grumble that even the executive lounge is closed. But they are soon appeased by complimentary boxes of Champagne and chocolate by way of apology. A children's choir on the concourse launches into My Favourite Things.

0.35hrs I smirk at the thought of Francisca battling with lengthy check-in queues and overcrowded airport terminals, as I stroll up to the 100ft-long Champagne bar to find groups already sipping bubbly.

An orchestra strikes up with some rousing Elgar and, as I admire the train snaking a quarter of a mile out of the station, I feel absurdly optimistic: I promise myself more bubbly to toast victory in Paris. I linger for a while before wandering down to the departure desks below (check-in closes 20 minutes before departure, compared with the 45-minute minimum on flights).

0.55hrs After queuing at security (there's only one person ahead of me), I go through customs, pick up a newspaper and stroll the 100 yards or so to the platform.

Unlike at Gatwick or Heathrow, there's no 20-minute, sweat-soaked dash to the gate down what seem to be never-ending corridors. A few families and couples gather alongside the business commuters. I jump aboard and find my window seat, enjoying the lack of seat belts and freedom to move.

0.59hrs I crane my neck to look down the platform as a man simultaneously waves Union Jack and Tricolour flags. But the entente cordiale is a bit rocky today - a transport strike has paralysed the French capital. It takes a few seconds to register that we're actually moving (a minute early).

Suddenly we are in a tunnel as we disappear beneath north London along the new (£5.8 billion) high-speed tracks. I brace myself for the moment that Eurostar accelerates into the 186mph bullet train we've heard so much about.

1.05hrs The moment passes unnoticed. As the Kent countryside disappears in a blur, a member of staff informs us that we are at top speed. It's anticlimactic. Only when cars appear to be going backwards on the adjacent roads do you get any sense of speed. But the smoothness is impressive. When the drinks trolley comes round, there is no danger of spilling orange juice down your shirt.

1.10hrs We arrive at Ebbsfleet International, the small Kent backwater that Eurostar has put on the map. But its moment in the sun will have to wait, as no passengers are boarding Eurostar trains until next Monday - nothing is going to stop this train arriving on time.

"Our punctuality is legendary," is the smug boast of the Eurostar brochure (94 per cent of its trains arrive on time). With BA's punctuality at little more than 50 per cent, I smile at the thought of Francisca being delayed.

1.35hrs As Ashford comes and goes, Francisca texts me to say she is boarding her flight on time. Sacre bleu! Flying at 600mph, she will be at Charles de Gaulle in less than hour. I must be imagining it, but Eurostar seems to quicken in response as we head into Channel Tunnel.

2hrs We emerge into a France bathed in sunshine. Zipping past Calais, we head south through a barren landscape. My coffee sloshes out of the cup as the train hits its first bump. Quelle horreur! And I overhear a Eurostar official talking about the transport strike in Paris - all gridlock, pickets and delays.

2.20hrs After a brief pause at Lille, we roar on past ploughed fields. I briefly doze off but awake to a battle between a member of the crew and two giant helium balloons that are stuck in one of the doorways. It turns out they are for a woman celebrating her 70th birthday. The carriage sings an impromptu Happy Birthday and I wonder if I have mistakenly boarded the train for Disneyland Paris.

2.38hrs The next hour passes in the blink of an eye. Then we slide into the Gare du Nord, ready for a ticker-tape welcome. I jump out - but where is the fanfare? With all the fuss in England, it is easy to forget that France has had high-speed tracks for years.

And, of course, Paris is on strike. There's no other transport and the arrival of 750 rosbifs is hardly something to celebrate. Hundreds of travellers are queuing up at the taxi ranks, the traffic is gridlocked, buses are few and far between and the Métro is almost at a standstill.

3.40hrs The Eiffel Tower, our finishing line, beckons. Map in hand ready for the three-mile cycle across town, I make a dash for the Velib' stands (the bicycles you can hire for one euro an hour). I am determined not to increase my so-far tiny carbon footprint.

But all three stands are empty. "C'est la merde," a Parisian shouts, as he kicks the ticket machine. It dawns on me that Francisca will already be en route from Charles de Gaulle airport, so I give it a hefty kick as well. It's time for Plan B.

3.55hrs With taxis taking an hour-and-a-half to get across town, Plan B is a motorbike taxi (anticipating that the Lance Armstrong idea might not work, I had booked one as a back-up). I meet the driver, grab a helmet and jump on.

My driver lives up to the Parisian stereotype, wildly gesticulating, his curses amplified by the earpieces we communicate through. As we roar through stationary traffic, squeezing through seemingly impossible gaps, my coat brushes a wing mirror or two.

I fight the urge to yelp and instead distract myself by thinking up lame retorts for Francisca in case she wins. ("What happened, Charlie?" "Eiffel off.")

4.10hrs We screech to a halt outside the Parc du Champ de Mars. No sign of Francisca. Merci. Mon Dieu. I wander up to the Eiffel Tower and pause to catch breath. There's nothing like the sweet taste of victory.

Finally I see a motorbike rounding the corner with an unhappy-looking Francisca riding pillion. I walk over casually, trying to look as if I have been here since D-Day. "That was plane sailing," I quip. Francisca groans.

This week sees the launch of our Telegraph TV travel show, Real Trips, in which our writers report back from their most exciting and adventurous travels. See footage and get a real insight into the highs and lows of their trips, plus advice on how you can do it yourself. Catch our first show online this week, featuring the London-to-Paris race, with footage of the two adrenaline-fuelled journeys from Big Ben to the Eiffel Tower and debriefings from the winner and loser.